


A Favor Earned

by GreyLoveWritesThings



Series: Arcanum Orbit [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Regency, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Belly Kink, Chubby Character getting Fatter, Conspiracy, Eventual Romance, F/M, Height Differences, I know, I'm Screwing Up History, Magic, Regency, Skinny Character getting Chubby, Steampunk, Stuffing, Wardrobe malfunctions, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-18 12:32:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16118510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyLoveWritesThings/pseuds/GreyLoveWritesThings
Summary: Frances finds herself indebted to a warlock when she manages to turn the nobles of Pax London against her. The magic she displayed is a rare and unknown type. It’s up to Dare Kovens, Warlock Extraordinaire, to figure out what she is capable of and hopefully use it to save Pax London from its growing darkness.Warning: Will involve weight gain, belly kink, food play, stuffing, etc. If that is not your cup of tea, you can spill it out and hit the back button.





	1. Burn the Witch

Frances Timmer curled her knuckles so tight that they were whiter than the rest of her flesh, which was a feat considering how pale she was, to begin with. Even the freckles that dusted the tops of her fingers twinkled away like stars in the daytime. She bit into her lip, tasting blood. Her head tilted to the side, and her eyes peered through the small star-like openings in the wooden wall. Confessional booths had always been a source of a joke for her. She always had trivial fun letting her tongue wag to Father Bailey. He was not a stern man, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a strong one. He’d been in London when Catholicism had been outlawed. He’d held secret masses, and when it was made legal again to worship, he’d left. Frances’s mother had followed him here. She was not the only one, but there were not many.

The thing that Frances knew, was that he was a man of unwavering loyalty to his flock. She may not have been so much his flock, but she was assuredly under his protection. That may have had more to do with her mother than anything. So, she came to him before she went anywhere else. She was afraid of what the constables would do.

“This is not really a confession, Miss Timmer.” She heard him stand and push the curtain aside. Frances looked forward, out into the pews of the church. It was nearing the end of the day, peachy hues from the sun poured through the stained glass windows. Three large glass globes hung from the ceiling, phosphorus baubles of light danced in them. That method of lighting was called fairy jars because it looked exactly how it sounded. Yet, it was not magic or the fae, but instead science. A cheap, reasonable science that fit a cheap reasonable man.

Father Bailey shadowed the entranceway into the booth, squashing all light with his form.”Come,” he said. “We shall discuss this in a more reasonable place. What you did was not a sin.”

“But those boys,” Frances said, letting the sentence trail from her lips.

“Will be fine.” Father Bailey moved from the entranceway. Frances sighed, pulling herself up and adjusting her dress. While she’d seen the rise of brighter, more primary, colors in the recent years, she still wore darker hues. Her mother a dressmaker and her father a tailor, they were always flush with the latest fashions, but that also meant that to save money their own dress was made from the leftovers. It led to a few more eccentric pieces from cobbled together supplies. For instance, a gray dress, sewn in the current fashion, but a thick piece of bright red material corseted around her waist, and her hem filled with yellow and red flowers. It wasn’t bad, per say, but it was definitely jarring.

She tried not to mutilate the bonnet in her hands as she held it tight to her body. Her red hair, curly and unruly slipped from its tight bun. She’s had a trying day to say the least. Her eyes didn’t want to look at the palms of her hands. Her breath hitched a thought of what might be there.

Father Bailey sat down in one of the heavy wooden pews, his posture as comfortable as one could get in those. He patted the seat next to him. Frances followed and sat. Usually, she was a lot more vivacious. Today, her personality had slipped to the back of her head and kindly folded itself into concern and worry.

“Frances,” he said. The Father only ever used her name when he wanted to convey something that she needed to hear. She looked away from her hands and towards his face. He was older and should have already been seceded in his job, considering. His gray hair barely held onto his head and floated in a halo of taffeta whisps. Eyes were gray, like a calmed storm or the winter’s sea. Wrinkles and lines patterned across his face, telling stories that Frances couldn’t even imagine. Yet, the most fascinating thing about Father Bailey was his smile. Simple. Serene. Yet, in times like these, Frances truly thought that he was the mouthpiece of God.

“I’ve known you since you were born. You’ve been a member of this church, and while not devout, at least you were punctual.” He tried to stir a smile from Frances, but she couldn’t will it. “I know your mother well. She always viewed me as a literal father figure growing up. Her mother always working, and her actual father long swept by the winds of change. And while I do not know your own father with such intensity, he’s always been kind if not a bit subdued. Then again, your mother can be quite much.” Frances offered him a smirk this time. “I know that you were a child born with your head firmly planted in the clouds. And I know that the hardships of life placed quite the heavy rock on it, forcing it to come back to this reality. You’re not a romantic, Frances.”

She let a noise pass through her lips but then paused. She didn’t want to be that disrespectful. Father Bailey continued, “and I think that’s why you’re one of the few women of your age that remains unmarried. I believe that’s why you help with your parent’s shop while also tending errands from the bakery. You learned at a very early age that life would not be as easy for you as it was for others. You were born in the wrong time and the wrong place, and to a life that should have been much grander.”

“Not to doubt you, but why is this important, Father?”

He leaned back in his chair. His hands in his lap, one curled over the other, and his eyes looked forward and away from Frances’s face. “Because if you had a husband or parents with more clout or even something to show for yourself; you could protect yourself from things to come.” He paused. “I hate to say this, Frances, but what you did will ruin everything you’ve ever done with yourself.”

“But you said they’ll be fine.”

“And they will. From what you described, that magic you performed is very reversible and considering you are a novice, in every way possible, cheap to reverse as well. Yet, those men have money, have connections, and have clout. You were protecting yourself, Frances, I understand. But what you did will turn heads, and not the ones you want turned.”

“But I didn’t even know I was magical,” Frances said, her voice breaking for the first time that day. As soon as it happened, she’d ran here. Not home. Not to the constables. Not even to the Arcanum Orbit for sanctuary. She ran to Father Bailey.

“Yes, usually powers like that develop at birth or younger. Usually, they only manifest this way through magical stigma. It’s uncommon for them to just pop up out of nowhere. But it’s known that you have them, Frances. So, you need to have protection.” He paused. “The only way to get that is through apprenticing with someone of magical aptitude. Most teachers won’t want someone this old to train, it would be a smear on their record. Others would accept you, but it would cost far more money than you have. The ones that are mandated by the Parliament to take in hedges mages, a title that you will have until they discover the nature of your power, have lists that are so long that it could be years before you were taught. And that would truly be too late.”

“So,” Frances said, leaning into the word. “Are you saying, Father, that I have no options?”

“I’m saying you have one option.” His hand came down on France’s shoulder, heavy but cool. “I am owed a favor, and that favor just so happens to be from someone that could teach you.”

She scrunched her face tight. “And I’m guessing by the wind up of this entire conversation, I will not much care for it, but I will have to take it.”

He smirked. “Am I truly that transparent? But yes.” He patted her shoulder before placing his hand back into his lap. “I am owed a favor by a warlock.”

“I will light my hair on fire before I come within a yard of—”

“My dear Frances, you just said that you were aware that this was an ultimatum. Take counsel from a warlock or face what those high-class brutes might have done to you.”

“Fine,” Frances groused. She didn’t have a choice and she knew it. It was either that or suffer severe penalties for both her and her family.

“The warlock does have the ear of the Prince Regent, so you should be safe with him.”

“Does he have the literal ear of the Prince Regent? Does he keep it in his pocket and set by his stand at night and whisper sweetly into it?” Frances couldn’t say that she wasn’t scared anymore. Oh no, her bones jittered in her chest. Her mouth felt free, though. She wasn’t tall. She wasn’t strong. But she wielded words like a torch against the dark.

Father Bailey sighed, plucking at the red cord around his hands. He rubbed the fine fabric between his fingers, something that Frances could imagine that he did a lot. “You’re scared, Frances Timmer. You usually don’t go on the attack unless you are. I was actually surprised that you kept as quiet as you did.” He paused. “You must know, that this favor is one I’ve held in my pocket for years. There have been many times where it would have been useful, but it would have been useful for me. I didn’t want that. I wanted to give it to someone.” He turned his gaze back to Frances, it was world-weary and old. At that moment, her lips stilled. While her hand no longer gripped tightly against her dress, her body still felt rigid and unfamiliar. “You may think you know the magical world, Frances. But it is far more complex than anyone can imagine. Favors are the currency of it. So, as such, I’m giving you riches beyond compare with this. Now, don’t take this as me trying to gloat about my altruism. Just take this as a single fact _I’m willing to give this to you because there is nothing else that can save you._ ”

Frances looked down at her hands, turning them. Her skin was pale and dotted with freckles, it’s been that way since she was a child, all through her teenage years, and well into her adulthood. Yet, on her palms were a starburst of pure white. She still felt the magic there, under the skin. What she’d done to those men that had— What she might be able to do to someone she loved. Those thoughts scared her. One by one her fingers fell over the mark, it was cool to the touch. “Very well,” she replied.

“Then we head out.”

She jerked up. “Now?”

“Now.” Father Bailey stood. “It is turning into night, and by the morning there will be fists at your family’s door. Best to already be armed.”

While Frances couldn’t really argue with that logic, she was tired. She wanted to hug her family, eat someone warm stew, and curl asleep on her bed. Yet, Father Bailey ushered her forward. She stood, glancing at the confessional booth, and then at the stained glass above it. Saint Magdalene stood there alone, with a lamp, halo around her head, and her eyes distant but forward. _So fitting,_ Frances thought.

Yet, unrealized to her, there’d never been a stain glass window of Mary Magdalene. In fact, when Father Bailey’s eyes trailed it upwards—it was just another brick wall.

* * *

Frances pulled her bonnet against her red curls as they entered Arcanum Orbit. It was called that given the way it encircled the center of Pax London like an orbiting planet. It cut swathes through various districts no matter their class or money. It was a perfect circle of magic. It was apparent when its domain parted a district. One moment, one’s feet would be slapping against wet cobble street before they were met with a glittering slate that was completely dry. It wasn’t that they existed in a different biome, but the Orbit kept its denizens comfortable. Winter and summer both still came, but without the annoying extremes. That was followed by architecture different than one would expect. Buildings leaned, some floated, shingles were a bright color, the stones were an odd shape, and birds flew around that weren’t natural. The Orbit seemed like an entirely different place and, yet, entirely the same. People passing through moved through it quickly. Yet, those that lived there or needed the services lingered.

Frances’s eyes caught against a fountain with a stone mermaid gushing water from her mouth. The stone winked. She jumped.

Father Bailey looked back. “Try to look at your feet. This place is one of magical deceit. Until you learn about it, I would avoid staring into it.” In his hands was a lantern that Frances couldn’t remember him grabbing. It was useful, though, as night blanketed Pax coldly. His pace was swift and stern. Frances strained to keep up.

They eventually reached a two-story house with blue stone and a deep red roof. The sign over it read _“Alexander ‘Dare’ Kovens; Warlock Extraordinaire.”_ Frances inhaled. She didn’t care for this plan in the beginning, and she was especially cautious of it now. The windows that shined out of the house were fogged over, only allowing sweet yellows of candlelight to pour onto the dark stone streets. The door was tall and heavy. There was nothing more to the outside of the shop.

Without hesitation, Father Bailey pushed the door open. Frances followed shortly behind. Immediately, there was warmth. She exhaled as she looked around. It wasn’t a large room. The floors, walls, and ceilings were a warm cherry wood. It smelled like burning autumn. There was a staircase to the right and a door under it. There were no other windows, except those against the other side of the room. They were dark. A desk sat underneath it with tomes piled high. The walls, from floor to ceiling, were filled with books and antiquities. There were several tables set up with various things of use with price tags. They consumed the floorspace of the room.

Father Bailey didn’t idle and walked towards the back and the desk. As he approached it, a jingling sound spread through the building. Frances didn’t know that the priest saw what she did, but her eyes latched on a webwork of silver strings. They danced, effervescent, over the room with golden bells attached to them. They inevitably led upstairs.

“Coming,” a voice boomed above her. She then heard the stairs let out a creak as someone descended. Her eyes went to the sound. She saw a boot, a riding boot which was not in season for someone in a house. Then she saw well-tailored gray pants. Father Bailey scoffed, Frances glanced back over to him, before returning to the figure descending the steps. She caught him at the bottom of them, rounding around the banister. A laugh caught in her throat.

Warlocks were usually a species called _narrow_. It meant _narrowly not born_ , and they were the product of human women making pacts with abominations, both land and sea, to bear their children. Usually, narrows were hidden as humans. They were mainly created to keep things in the family when the parents were barren. Usually, the practical mundane without a fleck of power in their bodies wouldn’t be able to tell. Frances figured that she could see it now. She saw in Dare Kovens, eyes bluer than they should be, and they glowed. Yet, that was not what caused her to chuckle. He was a _narrow_ but he was a very large man.

Dare Kovens stood easily a head over her. His face framed by loosely tousled black hair that was a common style and led to well-kempt sideburns but a clean face. His eyes were that glowing blue, and his brows were thick, stark, and black. He had a strong nose, full lips, and a striking chin. That led to a high, white cravat that apparently hid the roundness of his other chin. It sloped down into a white billowy shirt that was swallowed by a black-breasted coat with silver toggles. The waist was high, which wasn’t at all flattering. Dare had a soft chest and belly that pressed against the toggles and was compressed by the belt in the middle. His were gray, which led to the riding boots. He seemed suffocated in that suit.

The warlock moved forward, Frances’s eyes on his belly in interest. Inevitably her gaze shot up to his face. He looked down at her with a frown.

Father Bailey cleared his throat. “Lord Kovens,” he said. Frances paused. This warlock had a noble title? That should have been understandable given that the Father kept saying the warlock could protect her. Still, it didn’t sit well with her. “You owe me a favor.”

Lord Kovens paused, looked at Frances, and then narrowed his eyes at Father Bailey. “What is this about?”

Father Bailey stood tall, though shorter than the warlock. “I am cashing in my favor in.” His voice lowered, the same pitch it took during a mass. “Frances Timmer needs your help. She has displayed magic, and that magic might end up with her on the wrong side of the law.”

The warlock looked at her, his hands coming to his chin. “Frances Timmer,” he said, his voice thundering. “What did you do?”

Father Bailey turned to her. “Tell him the whole truth, Dear.”

Frances ripped the bonnet off her head and held it tight. She didn’t want to relive this scenario, but with those oppressing eyes, she knew it was either that or be back where she started. “I sometimes work for Baker Samson,” she started. “I deliver bread when asked. I just wrap it in fair linens and run about Pax. I know my way around.” She gulped. “Today, I passed down an alley. I was running behind. I thought this would be of help. Halfway through I was tripped by a man in a fancy suit. He had two other friends. They circled over me. The bread skidded down the alley and into a pool of water. I stood to get it, but they kicked me to the ground. Laughter passed between them. They leered over me in their fancy suits. One started to undo his pants. Another leaned down and pushed my face into a puddle. I tried to breathe and only sucked in stagnant alley water. I was sure I was going to die.” Frances paused.

Lord Kovens’ arms dropped, and he looked over her. “And what happened?” There was curiosity there, but maybe a smidge of concern.

“I—was scared.” Frances gulped. “I was more than scared. And at that moment my hands flared. They ignited the puddle and filled the alley. I passed out. When I awoke, I saw the three babies screeching around me in the alley.” She gulped. “I’d regressed them to children. I know I’d thought that they needed to be taught better. But I that was not the exact thought in my panic.”

Lord Kovens paused and turned to Father Bailey. “Is this true?”

The Father shrugged. “I did not see it for myself, but Frances is a dear and old member of my church. I have no reason not to believe her.” He scratched his cloud-like hair. “And she has no reason to come to me otherwise.”

Lord Kovens turned his attention back to her. “Do you have anything else to add?” he asked.

She pressed her nails into her palms. “No.” She paused. “Sir.”

“It’s been nearly a hundred years since I had an apprentice. I’m rusty, but she should do nicely.” Lord Kovens turned towards Father Bailey. “But if this ends poorly…”

“It is on my head, I know.” He turned to Frances. “I’ll tell your family you’re doing well. Be safe.” He walked towards the door. Frances looked up at the warlock and then to the back of the priest. Never had she so wanted Father Bailey to linger around. She reached an arm out, but the door opened and closed.

“This is your new life, Frances Timmer,” Lord Kovens said without a smile.


	2. Hidden Sins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frances finds herself indebted to a warlock when she manages to turn the nobles of Pax London against her. The magic she displayed is a rare and unknown type. It’s up to Dare Kovens, Warlock Extraordinaire, to figure out what she is capable of and hopefully use it to save Pax London from its growing darkness.
> 
> Warning: Will involve weight gain, belly kink, food play, stuffing, etc. If that is not your cup of tea, you can spill it out and hit the back button.

Lord Alexander Kovens stared at the woman before him. She was shorter than himself, substantially, but that was common in normal society. Her hair was red, curly, and if she had styled it at any point during the day, it’d come free. He’d hoped she had, because if this was her day to day look--well, magic couldn’t even hold a candle to that spectacle. It hung around her head like a lion’s man, yet less majestic and natural, and he swore that there was a leaf between the kinks of it. Yet, it was green and they were well into autumn now. Her skin was pale. Her nose petite. Her cheeks were rosy, and her green eyes were large behind pale lashes and astute brows. He didn’t know the slightest thing about her, but her dress was barely passable, symbolizing money but not wealth. The bonnet that was crushed between her spider-like digits was an indicator that she didn’t know how to deal with any class other than her own. That was… tiresome.

“Miss Timmer, is there anything else you’d like to add?” He asked, crossing his arms.

She looked him over, glanced at the door and then at her hands. “I think we have it covered. I turned some men into babies.” The words left her lips like releasing the string on a kite. They floated up, kissed the top of the sky, before being swept away by a strong gust. “Now I’m here, and I can’t go back to my family. Question is, am I sleeping here? Are you sleeping here? Lord Kovens… I hate to be rude, but… isn’t that a bit objectionable?”

Dare knew she was avoiding questions. She was actively hiding something from him, and it was important to his inquiries as to what type of magic user she was. Yet, he knew that bugging her at the tail end of a very long day would only end up with him losing his temper. He’d only found it this morning. He needed to hold on to it a bit longer. So, he answered her question. “You can stay in the study. There is a chaise there. I’ll stir up some linens.” He exhaled. “I have a personal place below the establishment.”

“That still puts us under the same roof.” Her hands went to her hips, flared out like an angry bird trying to protect her nest. 

He squared his lips. “Whatever sort of misconduct you are visualizing, you’ve invented it in your own head. I’ll take to my room, as I expect you to. Tomorrow we’ll tend to gathering some personal items for you. Otherwise, I believe I have a bed slip somewhere amongst the linens. I’ll fetch that for you.”

Her arms still out, she leaned in, increasing her aggressive stance. “Why do you have a woman’s bed slip?”

“My niece stays here on occasion, Miss Timmer if you must know. The rest of my family lives on the mainland, proper. So, they do not visit often with the exception of my niece. So, as a token of my gratitude, I usually stow away things she would wear when here, to allow her to travel light.” He cleared his throat. “Now, if I am allowed to continue?”

Miss Timmer paused and drew back. She nodded, her curls shimmering and rattling around her face. 

“There is a washroom through the door under the stairs, by the kitchen.” He pointed to it. It was a small door, the stairs not rising up too terribly high. Though, it wouldn’t be too much of a struggle for the young woman. He always had to tuck his head. “You are also welcome to anything you find in the kitchen. You are also allowed to roam about. I ask that you not touch anything in this room. The door to my room will remain locked. Do not try to unlock it. It has a very nasty bite.” He smirked. “Tomorrow will be a long day. So, get some rest. We’ll have quite a challenge figuring out exactly what you are.”

“Oh,” Miss Timmer said. “Didn’t you already know? Well, I’m the daughter of a seamstress and quite unmarriable. On top of that, I enjoy—”

He held up his hand. “Enough.” His voice was strong and pushed through the entire room. She fell silent but seemed concerned why she did. She’d become aware sooner than later. He’d used magic on her, but he couldn’t listen to her mindless prattle anymore. 

“Come with me.” He passed the by the woman and headed to the stairs. Gripping the banister, he slowly pulled himself up each step. There were about twenty. At the top of it, there was a short horizontal hallway with two doors. One was his study. The other was a spare room that held a wealth of things he hadn’t had a chance to go through. He was sure there was a bed there, but it would probably take Miss Timmer a lifetime to find it. And at the other end of the hallway was a Mahogany linen press. 

“That is your room,” he said, pointing to the study. Miss Timmer eyed him before crossing the threshold. He lumbered away and over to the wardrobe. His hands hesitated over the doors, chin tucking into the high collar of his shirt. He could feel resistance there, the excess fat wreathing his face bunching up against the tension. Yet, his mind was on something else entirely. Fingers shook, but he tucked them in the door handle and opened. The smell of lavender and sun washed over him. He cursed himself for instilling that spell on the piece of furniture so many years ago, but it was nice to smell her from time to time. Quickly, he grabbed two blankets, one a dusty pink and the other white, but thick, before closing the door. He opened the drawer underneath the doors with his foot and leaned down awkwardly to loop the bed slip around his finger. Dare knew he had to be a sight coming back into the study. Fortunately, Miss Timmer’s eyes were not on him. 

There was a portrait behind his desk. He’d forgotten it was there because he rarely ever came in here anymore, and honestly—familiar things were forgettable. It had been painted so many years previously, the figures were garbed in fashions from nearly a hundred years ago. Dare didn’t look at it long.

He dropped the mass of blankets and the bed slip on the chaise. Miss Timmer jumped before turning around. Her eyes looked him over before eyeing the portrait again. Honestly, he knew what she was about to say. The man in the portrait, seated and surrounded by others, was whip-thin and had a precarious smile teetering on his lips—as the Dare that stood in the room now was not that.

“You weren’t kidding about being a hundred years old,” was what Miss Timmer actually said. That caused Dare to pause. “So, glad that’s not the fashion anymore. Looks stuffy and terribly itchy. Also, those fabrics are… I’m going to say excessive.”

Dare blinked. He’d always kept up with the times and their clothing, and he’d forgotten all about the pomp and circumstance of his younger years—not that he looked too much older than himself in that portrait. Just a lot more tired and fat.

“It was,” he said. “But if whatever you draw your magic from extends your life, you’ll look back and think the same thing about what you’re wearing now. Though,” he paused giving her a once over, “I would think you shouldn’t get your portrait painted in that.”

Miss Timmer scoffed. “As if I have any business getting this face painted. I know how I look Lord Kovens.” Her eyes went to the blankets as Dare turned away. The study looked exactly as one would suspect. Built-in wooden shelves that housed numerous books and some oddities in jars The floors were thick, over polished wood. A large desk suffocated the back of the room. A chaise sat out in the middle along with a chair and a small table. A far larger chair perched behind the desk—overstuffed but worn.

Dare moved through the room and grabbed a few books, tucking them under his arm as he made his way back to Miss Timmer. “You are welcome to read if you wish. When you want to extinguish the lights, just tap twice on a glass surface.”

Miss Timmer’s gaze went wild around the room. It was in that moment she had to have realized there was no light source. It was just bright in the room. “I didn’t even…” And for the first time in the evening, she hushed herself of her own volition. 

He started to move out of the room, pausing at the threshold to watch her pull the rose-colored blanket up and smell it. She hesitated before making eye contact with him. “You were the one yammering about privacy. How about you give me some?” She smirked. “M’Lord.” He exhaled and closed the door.

* * *

Dare went through his nightly routine of closing up shop. He tapped a piece of glass in each room, causing the lights to slowly fade into darkness. A few gestures and his warning bells and traps were set. Fortunately, Miss Timmer had left her bonnet downstairs, and so he familiarized the soul spiders, that he did business with, of her aura. She wouldn’t be affected if she stepped out of the study that way. He then made his way to the kitchen, ducking through the small door under the stairs. 

Honestly, he didn’t know when this building was built. Everything in the Arcanum Orbit had some odd story about it. Many things seemed displaced from time, but never any from the future. Maybe because it was ever changing. Maybe because it would be dangerous. He had to assume that the small three-storied shop came from medieval times. Maybe it’d been a nook for a powerful wizard or devious witch. Or, maybe it’d just been someone’s house. A house that required a very large and very suspicious basement.

There was no place to dine, but he didn’t really need one here. His manor was more than equipped to have guests. This was just his place of work and where he stayed during the weeks he kept his shop open. It was just easier and less lonely.

Despite the building being old, he’d put some money into adding some newer comfort to it. For instance, a cooking range and plumbing. It didn’t work perfectly, magic truly hated innovation, but it was far better than throwing something over a fire and having your wall marked with ash and soot. It was still warm in there, Matilde having left only right before Father Bailey’s appearance. Dare had missed dinner. Still, the French woman knew that he would inevitably make his way back here. So, she’d left the food out, covering it with some cloth to keep possible bugs away—the soul spiders did so enjoy apples.

Dare couldn’t say much about Matilde. She’d escaped France during the time of war. She’d hid out in Pax London for some time before finding him. She presented him with a favor. He’d vouch for her and give her a way to blend in with British society, and she’d cook and clean for him. At that time, he’d noted her hands were not rough and her demeanor was not that of a maid or cook. But she’d come to him wielding a favor, something that the ordinary world didn’t know about, and she’d come to him and him alone. He didn’t like to spit into fate’s plans. So, he agreed.

The large wooden table consumed the small kitchen, different cooking utensils hung from the ceiling along with dried herbs. Whatever Matilde had used to cook with was already cleaned and put up. Nothing appeared as if someone had been laboring away in here only an hour before. Well, besides the food. He eyed the backdoor. She always came in that way, though he offered her the front. Rarely ever did she leave from below the stairs, unless Dare was indisposed and someone was at the door. She was the most helpful house mouse he could imagine.

He plopped down on the wooden bench that faced the doorway leading into the hallway. He less feared someone breaking in than Miss Timmer interrupting him. He sat the books next to his lap. He figured he could go over them while he ate. Dare became aware of his jacket as it pulled against the roundness of his belly. He’d considered tending to a corset of sorts, as the men did these days. Yet, at the same time—why? He rarely ever set out to impress anyone, especially not society. So, he unbuttoned and pulled the jacket off, setting it at his other side. The white dress shirt underneath was less restraining, but he had to admit his resemblance to a cloud was increased. He undid his cravat and unbuttoned enough of his shirt that his chin and throat were no longer suffocated. Finally, was all he could think.

Pulling the cloth off of a bowl, he hooked his finger around the lip and drew it to him. It was a soup. He was unsure what kind. It had cream and was green, and that’s all he could tell. Not really thinking about table manners or minding them, he grabbed a spoon and took to the soup. It was still warm. She must have just left later than the thought. He wondered how much of the interaction she’d heard from him and Miss Timmer. Dare was sure she’d remain quiet, but that concern was always there.

The soup tasted savory, far more so than he thought it would have given its appearance. Not realizing how hungry he was, he dived into it, grabbing a crunchy baguette to sop into it when he felt like changing the texture. All pretense of studying while he ate left his mind as his inner eye thought back to that portrait.

Common for that time, most of the background was extravagant. It was crowded with long shimmering cloth, a view of a far garden, and the striking blue of the sky. He was perched on a couch, dressed well and probably a bit more flamboyant than he needed to be at the time. He wore a powdered wig, a fashion that he was glad to see crawl its way out the door. He was happy. He remembered that much. Next to him was—Margaret. She was adorned in a blue dress with a low, square neckline. Pearls curled around her neck and draped over her head—black hair pulled tightly back. Dark eyes stared from her pale face, and a tip of a smile was over her lips. Yet, she never really smiled, or at least not for other people. She smiled for him, though, and only him.

“You outlandish, conceited man.” Her fingers curled through his black hair while her other hand caressed the once-sharp turn of his chin. “You are the only thing in this world that makes me laugh.” Which at the time, was a badge he wore in honor, but now he considered it a warning of what had come after. Because, seated next to her where their two sons, Matthew and Richard—barely a year apart in age. Matthew the planned one, and Richard a fluke born out of a drunken night. Beatrice hadn’t been born yet, which made sense. Because any portrait with Beatrice would not have Margaret. 

Dare’s spoon clanked against the bottom of the glass bowl. He considered it for a moment before letting it fall in there and pushing it aside. He wasn’t quite full yet, but a lot more sated than before. He drew the next plate over, the cloth over it stained a light brown by this time. He removed it and set it to the side. It was some sort of fowl, duck probably as Matilde had a fondness for that, covered in a brown sauce with a lot of vegetables seated under it. They were glossed in what he assumed was a butter mixture. It was far too much food for himself, especially after that hearty soup. Perhaps Matilde had thought Miss Timmer would have eaten with him.

He took the fork and knife and carved into it, sighing. He’d lied to the young woman about the bed slip. It was not his niece’s, but his granddaughter’s, Beatrice’s child. Beatrice was the only one of his children that had anything to do with him—Richard and Matthew firmly blamed him for the events that occurred before her birth. So as such, when they could, they distanced themselves from him. Dare only knew they had both had families and grown old and healthy because he scryed them numerous times. They never wrote. They never relayed information to Beatrice. If they could have stripped Kovens from their name, they probably would have.

Beatrice, though, from a young age was practically smitten with him, which he adored. He’d needed some distraction. Yet, that only lasted for so long. She didn’t need hours upon hours of his attention the older she got. So, he’d also distracted himself by becoming a confidant during the wars, attaching himself to the Arcanum Parliament, a small grouping of men with power both political and otherworldly, with a fervor he lacked now. Dare knew what he had done, later in life. After tragedy had struck, he’d favored Beatrice, disavowed his sons, and then ran off to leave all of them in the care of various relatives when their presence no longer suited him. Now, he sat alone in a kitchen in a house that was usually deserted.

Dare became aware of his fullness far later than he should have, his stomach stung in protest a moment before he felt it press against the side of the table when he leaned forward. He laid down the knife to run his hand over the side of it. It was tight, pressing firmly against his shirt. Fingers then slid to the front, noting how the high waist of his pants bisected the orb—showing that it still had some give. He rubbed it, practically feeling it whine beneath his fingertips. His eye ventured down to the pillowy white obstruction of his belly. He should stop. What would Margaret have said? He thought.

He could only imagine her, negligée on at this hour, leaning against the doorway of the kitchen. The light from the hall showcasing her silhouette through the folds of her clothes. Her long black hair fell over her chest, and her eyes found his. 

“Well, this is a new look for you,” she’d say. Taking a few steps forward, she’d lean over the side of the table, the curve her breasts hovering over another covered meal—flesh peeking out a bit, but nothing scandalous. Her fingers would come up, and her thumb would slide down his lips. Why she had so much more emotion in this flagrant fantasy than she ever had in all her life, he didn’t know. “Maybe if you’d eaten like this when we were wed, I’d still be alive.” Her thumb pressed past his parted lips. He bit down, teeth clacking, and the fantasy faded into thin wisps of blue. 

It’d been more than a playful visage. Being a narrow meant that sometimes when your mind was weak, your dark ancestral blood would stir up horrors. It wanted you to forget your humanity. 

Dare turned away from his thoughts and towards the books at his sides. He grabbed them with his free hand sat then down at the table, opening the first one up to a random page. He also dragged a bottle of wine, uncorked it, and took a swig from it. At least he’d save Matilde from having to wash the fine glass. 

He managed to finish the duck, stomach losing its protest as he worked his way through the bottle of wine. Vision, shimmery around the edges, fell on the last dish. He uncovered it to reveal a flakey pastry, filled with stewed fruits and covered in some liquored glaze—probably crème. Matilde had been leaning on that heavily as of late. Was she purposefully trying to glut him? “Maybe she fled France to find a suitable British lord to feast upon. Just got to fatten them up and then roast them. ‘That’ll show you, and all that.’” He snorted out a drunken laugh as he plunged his spoon into the desert. 

Aided by wine, fatigue, and the ghoulish nagging that Margret’s image had given to him earlier—Dare finished it. The drunken stupor he was in, lapping the last drops of a bottle of wine, let him ignore the damage he’d done to his midsection not to mention clothes. The buttons on his shirt, having strained before, held onto the fabric like a man with barely a fingerhold on a cliff. The lip of his pants, with the help of his crème covered fingers, had folded over. This allowed his tucked shirt to come upwards, showing a pleasant strip of strained flesh. 

Dare struggled to stand. He struggled to breathe. He struggled to keep himself upright. He grunted as he became fully erect, only for there to be a brief tightness of his shirt before sweet relief. He heard tittering of stone on stone as buttons launched off his grossly distended abdomen and the shirt parted. He barely noticed, taking more to the sudden chill of air across his warm tight belly. Grousing and grumbling, he managed to stumble his way through the door, across the hall, and get his door entirely open before slamming it behind him. Only the saints above the demons below would know how he managed to descend all those stairs without dying.

Yet, none of the knew—Dare least of all—that Frances had awoken from sleep in need of the washroom and possibly something small to chew on to settle her nervous stomach. She’d just opened the door under the stairs when she saw Dare cross the hall in all his glory. Stains patterned his white shirt, mostly wine but there were other colors. His pants caught against his thick hips but were dipping into obscene territory at the behest of that massive roundness that was his stomach. It had to have been at least double the size from earlier—triple maybe. She’d never seen a man so thoroughly stuffed as she did at that moment. Her breath hitched but she remained quiet. And unbeknownst to her, her eyes widened and her teeth scraped across pink lips.

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in a Regency AU called Pax London, a large city off the west coast of Great Britain. It was formed during the Arthurian times and is a haven for both the magical and the practical alike. You may note that some historical mentions and moments are muddled. I didn't even include a date when this is happening. There's a lot of handwaving with this piece, but I'll try to keep it as accurate as I can.
> 
> Also note, this is not the only story that will be featured in this setting. I have a m/m one and a f/f one, that I'm working up. For more information about those and the world in general, hit up my tumblr that's linked in my profile. 
> 
> Thanks!  
> Greylove


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